


Catching up

by hippocrates460



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Soft Smut Sunday
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-31
Updated: 2018-05-31
Packaged: 2019-05-16 10:48:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14809910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hippocrates460/pseuds/hippocrates460
Summary: It's not Sunday, but they can pretend.





	Catching up

Mycroft sleeps on his side. He faces the middle of the bed, so that he can see the door by simply opening his eyes. It took Greg a while to get used to the arrangement but now he loves nothing more than the way Mycroft curls up around himself in sleep, how his pyjamas ride up exposing pale ankles and soft stomach.

It’s a catch-up Sunday, and they’ve nowhere to be. No murders, no crises, Sherlock safely tucked away at Baker street. Told in no uncertain terms that after what he did to their real Sunday he’d have to be on his best behaviour. The sun is just starting to colour the curtains so Greg thinks, without looking for his phone, that it must be only 6 in the morning.

Nowhere to be.

With gentle fingers, he touches the hair on Mycroft’s stomach, then wraps his and around to rest it on his lower back. Greg shuffles closer and Mycroft makes the softest sound, happy and content. Nothing relaxes him like being touched by Greg, gentle slow sweeps, skin against skin. It took years for him to let himself ask, ‘could you scratch my back?’

‘That feels lovely, Gregory.’

‘Slower please.’

Now he lets out a needy whine and shuffles closer to Greg, turning onto his back in the process. Greg huffs against Mycroft’s neck and makes swooping circles on his sleep-warm stomach.

Mycroft mumbles something, and Greg kisses his collarbone, helps a sleepy Mycroft undo his pyjama buttons and push his bottoms down. Naked sleepy Mycroft. Soft and pale and fuzzy.

Hazy around the edges, in this light. Without glasses.

He’s not hard at all but Greg doesn’t mind. He crawls down the mattress, spreads pale lean thighs, kisses them gently. Licks Mycroft’s balls, first one, then the other. Enjoys watching them crinkle and shift.

In his mouth, Mycroft gets hard rapidly. Greg starts by gently sucking, chuckling lightly when Mycroft’s hips start moving. Mycroft reaches down to grab one of Greg’s hands and licks his index finger, then starts getting it wet properly.

“Awake now are you?” Greg whispers.

Mycroft opens one eye. “I don’t mean to alarm you, my dear. But there seems to be a Gregory attached to my penis.”

Greg can’t help but snort at that, especially the way haughty doesn’t work when mumbled around a wet index finger. He kisses Mycroft’s thighs again, and takes his hand back, trailing his finger down from soft balls over soft skin to tight muscle.

They’ve been together for years, long enough to know what they like, long enough to know when is the time for experimenting, and when is the time for favourites. Sunday mornings are for beloved. Warmth and trust.

Hips shifting, Mycroft’s body accepts Greg’s finger easily. Greg uses his other hand to play with the skin below Mycroft’s belly button, scratch through thick hair, pinch and roll. A needy moan escapes. Fingers twist in bedsheets.

“This what you want?”

Mycroft nods, so Greg pushes in deeper, sucks harder, uses his nails to scratch up sensitive skin. Grabs on to a bucking hipbone, moves his head as Mycroft loses himself.

“Do it,” he says, pulling off only far enough to get the words out. Mycroft’s hands cup his jaw, lovingly, gently, and he holds Greg’s face in place as he moves his hips up up up.

“Close,” his voice is hoarse and Greg loves him. “I’m close.”

Greg nods, looking straight at pale blue eyes. Beautiful. They close, and Mycroft’s head falls back, and he comes.

It’s a familiar taste, loved as everything else about this man. Greg swallows easily, kisses sweetly, then crawls back up to gather Mycroft close.

“I’m floppy.”

It never fails to make him smile when Mycroft loses his fancy vocabulary. “Hi floppy, I’m Greg.”

Mycroft groans and Greg smiles wider and they look at each other. Nowhere to be. They kiss, lazy and happy. Mycroft settles back down on his side, curled around Greg this time. He’s naked and warm so Greg wriggles out of his shirt, his pants, until they’re wrapped together, skin to skin.

“Do you know that feeling when you take a deep breath and it seems to come from your toes?” Greg asks Mycroft, though he looks to be asleep again.

“Contentment. The deep, deep peace.”

Greg nods to himself. That’s it.

 

**Author's Note:**

> "Wedlock - The deep, deep peace of the double-bed after the hurly-burly of the chaise-longue." - Mrs. Patrick Campbell


End file.
